The Best of Intentions
by silvermisery
Summary: I swear to God, Harry, I thought I was doing the right thing. You have to forgive me, oh god, I swear I swear I swear...
1. Prologue

The Best of Intentions

By: silvermisery

01 Prologue: Three Pieces Of Shredded Boomslang Skin

_Disclaimer: If Harry Potter belonged to me, there would be a lot more Hermione-Draco action going on, Snape would so not have died, and Remus and Tonks would be happily making a lot of little babies. Oh, and the Weasleys would all be dead._

**A/N: Pay attention to the dialogue, there's an important tidbit of info there. And I can't believe I'm starting another fic, but Far Far Better is on hiatus until I get past a huge writer's block. Sorry. Just—read this please. **

_I want to be big and let go_

_Of this grudge that's grown old_

_For the life of me I've not known_

_How to rest this bygone_

_I want to be soft and resolved_

_Clean of slate and released_

_I want to forgive for the both of us_

_Maybe as I cut the cord_

_Veils will lift from my eyes_

_--This Grudge, Alanis Morissette_

It started with three pieces of shredded Boomslang skin.

Potions had been as frustrating as usual, due to the combination of it being the first class after the weekend, Harry's less-than-stellar Potions skills, and Snape's ever-present snarkiness. By the time they have moved on to the actual practical in the Double Potions class, Harry had been ready to chuck the whole bloody cauldron at Snape's head, call it an accident, and skip out, regardless of the consequences, and only Hermione's restraining hand on his elbow had kept him from doing something unforgivable.

"How many pieces of Boomslang?" he asked quietly to Hermione, who was busily flipping through her notes. "Oh, six," she said carelessly as she continued scratching out mistaken or sloppily written words.

"_Six?_" he asked sharply. "Not three?"

"Yes, six—why?" she asked, looking up suddenly.

"Damnit!" he cursed.

"Oh Harry, you got three, didn't you?" she said in the slightly exasperated, worried, but caring tone she tended to use around him ever since Sirius had died.

"Yeah," he mumbled, feeling guilty that it would be his fault that her perfect grade would be messed up.

"Oh well," she said optimistically, "I think if we maybe put some extra shrivelfig, it might counteract it…won't be perfect, it'll be slightly too thick, but—"

A pale, perfectly manicured hand intruded upon their conversation, and both Harry and Hermione looked up in astonishment at Draco Malfoy. He stood with his natural feline grace, leaning slightly against their double desk with one hand outstretched.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry spat.

Malfoy's blond eyebrows arched expressively, and his grey eyes slid pointedly down to his long, aristocratic fingers. Automatically, the Gryffindors' eyes followed his to the white palm

Nestled among the folds of albino skin were three small pieces of shredded Boomslang skin.

"I had three too many," he said in his lazy drawl. And dropped them, one by one, on Harry's desk before he sauntered off.

Harry and Hermione stood staring after him, mouths gaping, before Hermione visibly collected herself and said uncertainly, "Well…I suppose we should…" her hand made a half-hearted effort to collect them, but Ron, who had been watching from across the aisle, stopped her before she could drop them in the cauldron.

"Are you mad?" he demanded in a hissing whisper. "That was _Malfoy _who just walked by! He probably—poisoned them or something!"

"Yeah—yeah, you're right," she murmured. "I'll just—"

Before she could Banish them, Harry had deftly swiped the ingredients from her hand and dropped them in the cauldron.

"What the bleeding hell did you do that for?" yelped Ron.

Harry looked up and frowned, his forehead creasing slightly in a very distracting way, thought Hermione. "I don't know," he said confusedly.

"Watch your cauldron explode," Ron muttered. "It's your funeral, but you might at least have thought about Hermione's grade before you went and did that."

Harry's green eyes filled with guilt, and he turned swiftly to Hermione. "I'm sorry, Mione, I didn't think—"

"No," she cut him off. "No, Harry, it's fine," she repeated, not letting her slight exasperation show. She could never resist him when he looked like that.

To Ron's—and, though she would never admit it—Hermione's surprise, the potion turned out perfectly. "See?" Harry grinned. "I told you we could trust Malfoy! Besides, he hasn't done anything this year, not much."

"Probably just scared we'd hex him again like we did on the train," Ron laughed coarsely.

But Harry was listening to Snape's voice drawl, "Too thick, Mr. Malfoy. Not at all up to your usual standards. Half marks."


	2. Chapter One

he Best of Intentions

By: silvermisery

02 Chapter One: Midnight Meetings

_Disclaimer: Blah blah blah not mine blah blah blah._

**A/N: One sided H/Hr, one sided D/Hr. Not slash. I swear.**

_You don't turn me off_

_I will never fail_

_Things I loved before,_

_Are now for sale_

_Keep yourself away_

_Far away from me_

_I'll forever stay_

_Your perfect enemy_

_Perfect Enemy, t.A.T.u._

It started with Boomslang skin. But it didn't, as Hermione wanted it to, end there. The next day, during Charms, when they were trying to make wine, it was Malfoy who leaned over and said helpfully, "You're not moving your wrist enough, Potter. You have to swish it a little more. And it's _Ar-ceh-REH-bus, _not _Ar-CEH-reh-bus._"

"Shut the hell up, Malfoy," snarled Ron. "Harry doesn't need your sodding advice. Do it yourself, then, if you're so smart."

"All right, then," said Malfoy mildly. He rolled up his sleeves, swished his wrist, and said, lazily, "_Arcerebus._" The glass filled with blood-red wine, and Malfoy coolly took a sip. "Mmm," he remarked. "1894 Champagne. Good year."

Ron's face turned red, and Hermione, who had been about to give Harry the same advice, had to hold him back, but she couldn't help thinking about a similar instance back in first year, with a little girl with buck teeth and a certain charm called _Wingardium Leviosa._ Very coolly, Malfoy looked over and gave her a wink, and Hermione knew he was remembering it too. The cheeky bastard.

What with all the déjà vu, she never thought to look over at Harry.

When she did, his attention was firmly focused on his empty glass, and she never wondered what he might have been thinking for those few minutes her attention was turned elsewhere.

"Oy, Harry. _Harry. _HARRY!" Ron gazed in exasperation at his black-haired, oblivious friend.

"Harry," Hermione said, shaking him slightly.

"Oh, uh—whazzat?" Harry looked up startled, as if waking up from a deep sleep, his green eyes muddled and clouded.

"You're doing it again!" accused the redhead.

"What?" asked Harry.

"You were staring at Malfoy again, Harry," Hermione clarified gently.

"Oh," he said blankly.

"What is it with you and the ferret?" asked Ron heatedly.

Hermione looked at him with eyebrows raised, waiting for the answer.

Harry shrugged, infuriatingly. "I don't know," he said simply, and then headed off any further questions by stuffing a bread roll in his mouth.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other, worry clearly written all over their faces, but Harry was too busy sneaking glances at Malfoy to notice.

"Shit!" Harry skidded to a stop just before crashing into a stone gargoyle outside the DADA classroom. He would have been on time, but something was terribly distracting, Malfoys being unaccountably nice all over the place was barring his concentration…

He would have been on time, even early. Only that damned Malfoy had smiled at him—_smiled at him_—and waggled his hand a bit and said, "Hello," and Harry had stood there staring stupidly after him like the biggest prat that ever lived.

And then he'd realized that he was dangerously close to being late, and had had to rush off. Stumbling in the classroom, it didn't help his feelings any that Malfoy was sitting elegantly back in his chair, with his notes, textbook, inkwell, and quill spread neatly before him and his wand out by his side.

"Wotcher, Harry!" said Tonks, the current DADA professor, along with Remus.

"Hey, Tonks," he grinned weakly at her, feeling guilty that he was late. She was so nice to him. Her bubblegum-pink hair was hurting his eyes slightly.

"Sit down, Harry…um…over there, why don't you go next to Malfoy?"

From next to Hermione, just before Malfoy, Ron gave an audible groan, but Harry just sighed and trudged over to the empty seat next to Malfoy's. What the hell, he decided, the day was Malfoy-esque enough already, it almost figured he would have to sit next to the prat.

The Slytherin did not look up as he put down his textbooks and did not acknowledge him in any way except to sweep off a few sheets of parchment that were encroaching on Harry's part of the desk. His blond head was bent over a textbook, and from time to time his hand came up to sweep a lock of hair off his forehead. The lock, however, stubbornly refused to stay down, and after about the fifteenth time in less than two minutes, Malfoy's head came up in exasperation as he muttered, "I'm getting this cut. It's really ridiculous."

"Like everything else about you?" Harry asked, but the look Malfoy leveled on him made him feel small and slightly ashamed of himself, and he ducked his head as Tonks said,

"Turn to page 193," and resigned himself to a long, difficult lesson.

"Harry," Hermione came running up to him after the DADA lesson was finished. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he muttered without much heart in it.

"Did that git Malfoy bother you?"

"Actually, no," he said.

He had. Not intentionally, but there was just something curiously unignorable about Malfoy. He was too shiny. Like flashy disco lights when you were walking down a street. He turned heads everywhere he went. Just something about him that made him impossible to fade in the background, and as a result, Harry had been completely unable to focus on a word Tonks had said in her admittedly interesting lecture; he'd have to ask Hermione later.

"What's that in your pocket?" asked Hermione.

Harry blinked and looked down. A scrap of parchment was in his pocket, and he pulled it out and read the flowing, almost calligraphic script on it.

_Harry, _it said. _By now, I'm sure you're incredibly confused and fed up by my abnormal niceness. If you want explanations, meet me in the abandoned Charms classroom after curfew. Don't give me any gobshite about breaking rules; I know about your invisibility cloak. _

— _DM—_

He should tell Hermione and Ron about this. He should not go. Malfoy had done this before, in first year, for the duel he had never shown up for. He should tear the note up.

"Nothing," he said carelessly, and slipped it back in his pocket.

But long after Ron had forgotten all about it, Hermione stood gazing out of the Gryffindor common room window after curfew, wondering where she had seen that parchment before. That fancy, almost invisible watermark on it…that light scent of spring and rain and mint…that fine, almost velvety texture…expensive aura…she sat bolt upright. _Expensive. _Oh God. _Malfoy. _

She ran to find Harry.

Meanwhile, the object of her search was currently traversing the corridors of Hogwarts, huddled under a certain shimmery, silvery cloak. Why on earth he was doing this, he had no idea, but comforted himself with the knowledge that he could always hide himself under the Invisibility cloak so that Malfoy could not find or get him in trouble like last time. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Norris might be able to see through his cloak.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he whispered as he touched his wand to a blank piece of parchment, produced from its permanent residence from under his robes. The thin, spidery lines of ink slowly made their way across the parchment, and he scanned it, eyes darting from left to right.

"Filch, Snape," he muttered. "McGonagall, Remus—hang on, aren't those Tonks' rooms—oh God," he swallowed, feeling his cheeks flush. "Uh, moving on, where is he, where is he—oh, there he is."

The dot labeled _Draco Malfoy _was pacing in the abandoned Charms classroom.

"Bingo," he muttered, an American expression he'd picked up from Hermione's reality shows on television. "What do you know, he showed up after all." Of course, that was not to say the Slytherin might not have some other prank up his sleeve. But still—he was there. That had to count for something. Keeping the Map out in case he ran into Filch or Snape, he made his way slowly up to the classroom, his wand at the ready.

"Bloody Potter," Draco snarled as he paced swiftly from one side of the room to the other. He was a pacer; he always had been, and even Lucius's extensive training had not wholly wiped this trait from him. His mother had called him as much a Black as a Malfoy, and maybe she had been right, though for a long time he had not wanted to believe her. He was a blazing fire, tightly controlled by bonds of ice, and he did not like it when things did not go his way.

Potter was late. His lip curled.

Not that this was new; the stupid Gryffindor was always late, but Draco could not help wondering whether or not the reckless boy would even come. Certainly his behavior along the past seven years had given him no reason to do so. And how could Potter know that this time, he was for real?

In the midst of his pacing, he was suddenly violently caught and thrown back, his head striking the wall hard. Sudden tears from the pain clouded his eyes, and he blinked hard as he squinted, trying to make out his attacker. Though he could feel fingers choking his windpipe, he saw no one, and that could mean only one thing.

"Potter?"

Harry had drawn close to the Slytherin, watching him pace. The other boy moved like a cat, or a wolf, with all the easy, lethal grace of a predator. As he was wondering whether to show himself or to stay silent, he saw Malfoy's lip curl. A shiver passed through him; Malfoy's grey eyes were staring directly at him. Could he see him? No, that was impossible—no one could see through an invisibility cloak.

_Dumbledore could, _he thought, and then, _who knows what that sneaky Slytherin came up with now?_

And without stopping to think about it, he pounced.

The other boy's body was pliant under his hands, and he felt a surge of exultation as he shoved Malfoy's head back into the wall, jerking him back by the hair.

"Potter? What the hell are you—ah!" he gasped, as Harry bent him over further. "Bastard!" he gasped. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I just wanted to talk!"

Harry let him go, slightly ashamed, but too fired up by blood lust to really care much.

"What?" he asked.

"God, Potter, you're acting as hormonal as a pregnant woman!" gasped Malfoy.

Harry narrowed his eyes, and Malfoy held up his hands. "All right, all right. Geez. Touchy much? I just wanted to call a truce."

"A what?"

"A truce, Potter, it's spelled t-r-u-c-e and it means a cessation of hostilities. No more fighting. You know, those little things that do happen once in a while and I think might be sensible for us. Since, after all, we have more important things to do."

"Like?"

"Oh, am I that important to you, Potter? I'm touched, really I am, but incidentally, you _do _have this unimportant person called Voldemort, a.k.a. the Dark Lord, after you, and I have family obligations, blah blah blah."

"You called him Voldemort?" Harry asked. This whole thing was unreal, he thought. Meeting up with Malfoy after curfew. Not hexing him to death on sight. Why not add, have a civil conversation onto the list? The world was already topsy-turvy, might as well send it flying with a nice kick.

"It happens from time to time," said Malfoy, who Harry was beginning to think might actually be able to best Hermione at sarcasm. "Well, what do you say?"

"Whazzat?" asked Harry, finally losing all control of his tongue.

"You silver-tongued Lothario," Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Are you agreeing to the truce, or not?"

Harry could _hear _him adding a comma after the truce.

"Oh—um, all right, I guess," he said.

"Show a little less enthusiasm, why don't you?" Malfoy shook his head, his pale blond hair gleaming. "Whatever, _Harry,_ see you around." And he slipped out, leaving Harry with the distinct feeling that he was missing something here.


	3. Chapter Two

The Best of Intentions

By: silvermisery

03 Chapter Two: That One Man Should Die For The People

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Shocker, I know._

**A/N: One sided H/Hr, one sided D/Hr. Not slash. I swear. Title from the Bible, John 11:50: Nor consider that it is expedient for us, that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not.**

_So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed_

_Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind_

_So many years have passed, who are the noble and the wise?_

_Will all our sins be justified?_

_--Hand of Sorrow, Within Temptation--_

It wasn't much of a truce, at first. There were no more huge brawls or fistfights, but since Malfoy had laid off those since last year, not much had changed—openly. However, there was a subtle difference in their daily interaction. When Malfoy's eyes danced with glee at Harry's mistakes in Potions, Harry's "Sod off, Malfoy," was more casual. Affectionate, almost, the way he would say it to Ron, or even Hermione if she hadn't been a girl.

When Malfoy struggled with Transfiguration—never his strong point—Harry would grin, and Malfoy's rejoining "Go bugger yourself, Potter," was almost friendly.

And then there was the momentous day when Draco Malfoy showed up at the Gryffindor common room and asked for Harry Potter.

It had started with Colin Creevey running to the Gryffindor sixth year boys' dorm, where Dean, Ron, Seamus, and Harry were playing Exploding Snap while Neville did his homework. "Harry, Harry!" he yelled.

"Hide me," Harry groaned.

"Malfoy's outside the Fat Lady, and he's asking for you!"

Pandemonium ensued. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan were asking each other loudly what this could mean. Neville had jumped at the mention of Malfoy and knocked over his inkwell, and now he was scrambling around frantically trying to clean it up and salvage what remainder of his Potions essay he could. Ron was slowly turning red, and the tips of his ears were tinged purple, never a good sign. 

Outside, Ginny was screeching about stupid Malfoys. Hermione came running up, her face determined, demanding,

"Harry James Potter, I have put up and put up with your lame excuses. I demand to know _what on earth _is going on with you and Malfoy!"

"Er, later, Mione, Ron," Harry said awkwardly, made his excuses to Dean and Seamus, advised Neville to use _Scourgify, _and fairly ran out of the Gryffindor common room and leaped out of the Fat Lady, almost colliding with Malfoy.

"What the hell do you want?" Harry demanded. "You're stirring up a ruckus in there," he indicated the Gryffindor common room by jerking his head back.

"D'you want to play Seeker-to-Seeker?"

The request was so unexpected that for a moment Harry just stood there, staring stupidly at him.

"I mean—you don't have to if you don't want to," Malfoy added quickly. "I just—I'm new at this friends thing, and I thought this might be what friends do, but if—"

"Nah," said Harry, suddenly feeling stupidly happy. "Nah, let's go."

On their way to get their brooms, Harry asked, "Didn't you ever have any friends?"

"Well—yeah," Malfoy said. "But Slytherin friends are kinda different from other friends. We lie a lot and manipulate and connive and steal, and we never come right out and say what we mean, but we always watch out for each other's backs."

"That's awful!" Harry said.

A mask fell shut over Malfoy's face. Harry hadn't even noticed that it had been gone, but now that it was back, he realized that Malfoy's face had been more open than he had ever seen it.

"Not really," Malfoy pointed out evenly. "We _always _watch out for each other's backs. Even when our beliefs differ. "

"The Blacks disowned Sirius for not becoming a Death Eater," Harry responded. Proud that he could say Sirius's name now without stumbling, he almost missed what Malfoy said next.

"That's different. That was family."

"Isn't family supposed to be _more _supportive?"

"Yes. You're supposed to support your family's beliefs unconditionally. Your family's honor. Sirius was old enough to know what he was doing and what he meant when he turned away from his family's creed. He knew what it would entail."

Harry glanced incredulously at Malfoy. His face was pure iron. Judging that he would not get any more answers from this source, he changed the subject.

"What are we going to do for a Snitch?"

Just as quickly as Malfoy's face had shut down, now it lit up with pure, simple enjoyment. "C'mon, I'll show you."

And it was as simple as that. They spent the afternoon chasing about after the Snitch, and Harry realized with surprise that when Malfoy wasn't busy directing the other players on his team, since he was the unofficial captain or snarling with rage at Harry himself, he was really a fairly decent Seeker. He caught the Snitch three times out of seven, and when they started to head back as it got dark, Harry was surprised, and said as much to Draco, who only laughed and asked, "Did you really think Professor Snape would let me buy my way onto the Slytherin team?"

"Well…" said Harry.

"That's not our way, Harry," Malfoy said seriously. "We're Slytherin, remember? Those of great ambition. We operate based on ability. Of course money and family name affect ability, so we count that in. But basically, it's all about what you can do and how well you do it."

"It sounds like a lonely way to live," Harry muttered before he could stop himself.

"It is," said Malfoy wistfully. "But it has its compensations. We're at your dorms now," he said quickly.

"Um. I guess—goodbye, then," tried Harry, then screwed up his face in a grimace. "Ugh, this all feels so wrong. I'm saying goodbye to a Slytherin."

To his surprise, Malfoy just laughed and waved him on into the dorms. Harry sighed and squared his shoulders, bracing himself for a long, long talk.

Hermione Jane Granger was furious. No, she wasn't, not completely. She was hurt. How _could _Harry do that to her, to Ron? Weren't they his best friends since way back in first year? Hadn't she stuck by him through thick and thin, even if he hadn't stuck by her all the time? Wasn't she—_in love with him_—like a sister to him?

She'd thought they had something—had fooled herself into believing that sometimes when he looked at her through half-shut eyes and he tilted his head and the light was just right, sometimes there was something in his eyes—thought he might, maybe, possibly—return her feelings—like her back.

And then he went and ditched her. For Malfoy. Without a word of explanation. Not even a, "So long." Just total silence and absence until she felt she didn't know her best friend at all. Just an empty shell who stared at her with those criminally green eyes until she couldn't think straight anymore.

So she waited calmly in the common room, long after everyone else—besides Ron—had gone off to dinner, waiting for Harry to come back. Like she always did. Waiting so she could pick up the pieces yet one more time, hoping that maybe, maybe this time Harry would see what she did for him and that they fit together, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Waited with a level face and hard, hurt brown eyes.

When he finally did come in, it was late. Almost curfew. The other Gryffindors had long since come back from dinner, but they had taken one look at Hermione's and Ron's hard faces, and had cleared out, heading up to the dorms to talk quietly, sleep, or do homework, all ears tensed for the confrontation sure to occur.

Hermione noticed that his hair was windswept, giving him that goodlooking—_sexy_—Quidditch hair, and she reflected that only she would think that having his hair messier than usual was sexy. His glasses were askew on his face and he had that look of sheer exultation of his face that he always did after flying. Somewhere deep down, Hermione wished that _she _could cause that look on his face, but she firmly pushed the feeling aside and focused on the task at hand.

Harry took one look at their faces and knew he was in trouble.

"Look, guys—" he began, but Hermione cut him off.

"Where have you been?"

"If you'll just let me explain—"

"Answer the question, Harry," Hermione said in a dangerous tone that her mother used to say made her sound like a lawyer.

He sighed, defeated. "Flying with Malfoy," he said.

"Are you friends with him?"

"I—look, I don't know. Really. We're sort of friends, not like you and Ron, but just—something different, all right? It's more like we have a truce."

"And you regularly go flying all day with people you have truces with?"

"Um—it's a truce now, I didn't say it couldn't become something more."

"Are you in love with him?" the question was bluntly put, for Hermione, and it was so unexpected that Harry blinked for several long seconds.

"Wha—no! I'm not even gay!" It was true. He had never looked at Malfoy in _that way _before, or indeed any other guy. He was totally and happily straight. It seemed to him that Hermione had a relieved look on her face, but it was gone before he could really be sure.

"Okay, then what do you see in him?" Ron demanded.

"I dunno," Harry said softly. "It's just—I think he might be wanting to change, for real. Think how nice it would be without Malfoy plaguing us all the time, guys!"

"I don't have anything against that," Hermione said. "It's just that you seem to be obsessed with him!"

"I'm not, I swear," Harry said.

Hermione raised her eyebrow, but let it go at that. She was just too relieved that her Harry—_when had she started thinking of him as her Harry—_was totally and happily straight to push him. Later she would press him for information. All she wanted to do now was walk on wobbly legs to her bed and fall down and sleep and sleep and sleep as she hadn't done for a month, ever since Malfoy had dropped three pieces of Boomslang skin on Harry's desk.

Albus Dumbledore finished listening to Fawkes and frowned, staring off into the distance thoughtfully as he stroked his beard. Really he should get it cut, it was getting ridiculously long. This grandfatherly look was all well and good, but there were limits. Any longer and he'd begin to look like a male Rapunzel. Well, a male, incredibly old, and wrinkly Rapunzel.

But this business with the Malfoy boy was beginning to become worrisome. He was getting too close to Harry, much too close to Harry, and Albus didn't like it. Not one bit. Malfoys had never been good news, Albus remembered Abraxas, or was it Gabriel, who stole all his lemon drops and replaced them with Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans instead—all the yellow ones. He had never quite forgiven—Gabriel, he was sure now, it was Gabriel, the one right before Abraxas, and the following ones had been even worse. He would never forget the time James had come running to him because Lucius had discovered the secret of Remus's lycanthropy and had threatened to blackmail James with it.

And Draco—Draco Abraxas Raphael Malfoy was the worst of them all, and now he was seducing Harry to the Dark side. Which was Not Good for Albus's plans at all, Not Good At All.

Yes, Draco Malfoy would have to be dealt with, and dealt with soon, before this inconvenient and quite frankly embarrassing almost-friendship between the boys grew into something more. Albus knew Harry, and he knew that once the dear boy had gotten his teeth into something, he wouldn't let it go. And he was intensely loyal to his friends.

His friends…perhaps that was the key…Albus smiled as he considered his options. Someone highly intelligent, capable of the subtlety necessary for such an operation, someone close to Harry, someone naïve and idealistic and easily gullible to someone in authority whom she trusted, someone of the right sex….someone who would allow her mind to overcome her heart…someone who loved Harry with all her heart.

He smiled and held out his hand for Fawkes. "Lemon drops?"

Life went on. Harry and Draco spent more and more time together, playing Seeker-to-Seeker, Wizard Chess, Exploding Snape, studying, or just hanging out and talking. Harry showed Draco the pear to tickle to sneak into the kitchens, and Draco showed Harry the secret way into the prefect's bathroom. Harry told Draco about the Marauder's Map, and Draco told him about the way to get into any dormitory in any House—even the girls'.

Ron muttered darkly and glowered at everybody who came near, choosing to hover and talk to Dean and Seamus instead. Hermione chewed her nails and immersed herself in her study, choosing to ignore the way Harry's face lit up when he saw that shock of blond hair and refusing to acknowledge what she was beginning to realize—that even if Harry didn't love Malfoy in _that _way, she could still lose him to the Slytherin git—that she was doing so every day. And Ginny laughed and flirted with him when he came up to the common room and said airily to anyone who asked—and to several who didn't, "He might be a Slytherin, but he's damn hot!"

Only he wasn't. His nose was too pointed and his cheekbones too high, his face all hard angles and his eyes too large. He couldn't get a tan to save his life, and he was rather skinny and not as tall as he had been before everyone else caught up. But his skin glowed with a sort of inner light, and his hair was silver and shiny, and his pointy nose and high cheekbones seemed to fade in the way his eyes shone and his hands moved with a sort of feline grace as he did imitations of Colin Creevey in the Great Hall.

And Hermione hated him. Hated him with all her heart, because in just six months he had done what she in six years had been unable to do—find the way into Harry's heart. She looked out the window at the two boys as they laughed and tussled on the grass, their brooms flung carelessly outside. As she watched, Harry flung a handful of grass on Malfoy's hair, and the poncy git shrieked and clawed wildly at the gleaming locks while Harry rolled about laughing.

Harry's hair was tousled, and his cheeks were flushed from laughing, and he clutched at his sides because it hurt, and his face was alive and open with Malfoy as it had never been with her, and she loved him so much it hurt.

"Granger?"

She looked up. Raqueleene Perrys, a Gryffindor seventh-year, stood looking down her nose at her, like she tended to do to most sixth-years and below. "The Headmaster wants to see you. The new password is 'Snickers.'" With a toss of her long black hair, the pretty but superbly snooty girl flounced off.

Hermione blinked, feeling rather bemused, as most people did after a dose of Raqueleene. Then she got up and headed for the ugly gargoyle, wondering what on earth the Headmaster would want with her, and hoping fervently that it was nothing to do with a certain excursion into the Restricted Section to find out for Harry what _Mordsmodre _did.

"Miss Granger?"

"Yes, Headmaster?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap as she sat across the old desk from the Headmaster. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stared at her with those twinkling blue eyes that always made her feel as though she was an eager first-year again.

"I have a task for you." Hermione blinked again. These were the last words she had expected to hear from the Headmaster. Seconds ticked by as the words slowly filtered into her brain, processed and reprocessed as her mind drew and extracted every bit of information she could from them, until they sunk, irretrievable, into herself. Then she looked up.

"I am not ordering you to do this, Miss Granger. You may not want to do this. I will understand perfectly. It is a voluntary task only. But word of this, whether or not you accept, cannot leave this room. Do you understand, Miss Granger?" His eyes were very clear as they met hers directly over the bowl of lemon drops on his desk.

"Perfectly, Headmaster," she answered. "What is the task?"

"I want you to eliminate Draco Malfoy."

The words fell harshly on the sudden silence permeating the air. Hermione was suddenly acutely aware of everything; the slight breeze that flickered throughout the office, the red and gold phoenix perched on the windowsill diagonally opposite her, the wooden carving on her ornate chair digging into her thighs, a few unruly strands of her bushy hair clinging to her face, and most of all, the piercing blue eyes of the man she had revered as the Hero of the Wizarding World fixed unrelentingly on her.

Her mouth opened a few inches, but she had nothing to say. No, she had too much to say, words that were filling her and yet eluded her grasp, ideas and half-formed thoughts that flitted through her brain too fast for her to fully comprehend them, confusion and bewilderment and above all, an inability to reconcile those bare, cruel words with the kind, benevolent man she had known.

"Why?" she managed finally. There. That was innocuous enough, simple enough for her to get out.

"Why? Because, Miss Granger, he is a danger to the Wizarding World."

"A danger? But—I don't understand; he's Malfoy, I get that, but—a teenage? He's not even of age yet, is he? He's just—Malfoy."

"Yes. At first, for six long years, I, too, believed him to be 'just Malfoy.' Indeed, for the past six years, he has only been ' just Malfoy.' But now, things have changed."

And just like that, Hermione understood. "His 'truce' with Harry," she said.

"Yes. Mr. Malfoy is a dangerous person. Now, his magic is not on the level—nor will it ever be on the level—of, say, Harry, or Voldemort. His raw power is not very exceptional. But his skills are something different. I have here a file—" here Dumbledore waved his wand gently, and a file of paper drifted down softly onto the desk in front of Hermione—"that contains much information about Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione flipped through the file. To her surprise and secret consternation, she began to see a pattern in his grades. Malfoy was not, in fact, as she had supposed, a lazy, ordinary boy who managed to pass by dint of his father's connections. He did have some potential, and he did apply himself. His grades in Potions were, as she expected, almost all Outstandings. _Straight A's, _she thought to herself. Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Arithmancy, and, surprisingly, History of Magic, was also all either Outstanding or, more often in History of Magic, Exceeds Expectations. Herbology at first confused her; his grades seemed to be alternating between merely Acceptable to Outstanding, without even an EE in between, until she saw the pattern; anything to do with Potions or other practical things, such as edible 

food in the wild, got a stellar grade, while things merely of scientific interest, such as the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia, _were merely average. Interestingly, their study on roses also got an Outstanding, but Hermione passed over that until later. Transfiguration as well puzzled her until she realized that the vain peacock only excelled at things to do with grooming or comfort charms, as well as spells to upgrade the quality of certain items, but was nothing special at other types of Transfiguration. She continued flipping through the file.

"Malfoy's an Animagus?" she exclaimed, her head flying up to look incredulously at the Headmaster.

"Ah yes, a white fox-wolf?" Dumbledore said. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy has been an illegal Animagus for approximately two years now."

"But why didn't you tell someone and just get him arrested for that?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Why do you need me?"

"Because Mr. Malfoy is a minor, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore. "And because Lucius Malfoy is an important man in the Ministry."

"Of course," she muttered, then looked up from her perusal of the file, determining to finish it later. "What do you want me to do?"

Dumbledore smiled, his lined face breaking into a collection of laugh wrinkles. "I knew I could count on you, Miss Granger," he said. "I need you to—remove him from the scene, so to speak. We don't know why he's making friends with Harry yet, but we do know it is not for Harry's benefit. We need him away from Hogwarts, and away in such a manner that Harry does not know or care, and so that he cannot contact the dear boy again—or anyone else, for that matter."

"You mean—" but Hermione found that the word would not come out. It would be too irrevocable, too unchangeable. The last betrayal of the naive, idealistic first-year who had been so enchanted at the idea that magic could be real—that she was a witch—that she could use her magic for good—that all magic was good. That the world fell in planes of black and white, and she could still make clear-cut choices between good and bad. It stuck in her throat, and she fell silent.

"Perhaps, Miss Granger," the Headmaster said, sighing. For the first time since she had known him, Hermione realized that he was old. Really realized, not just recognized it in some distant corner of her mind. He had lived for almost two centuries now. Even for wizards, his lifespan had been unusually long. It would not be long now, her mind told her, and instead of infallible and all-knowing, he merely looked like a man, old beyond even his advanced span of years, who had had to grow up too fast and see more than any human should, and who could only do the best he could.

"Hermione," he said gently, using her name for the first time. "I understand. I really do. But sometimes, promises get broken. You see that, don't you? And some people must be sacrificed for the greater good, because that's the way life is. The Light doesn't have time to smooth things out for every single person along its path, or the Dark would win. The Light is a cause, and a cause hurts those it serves sometimes. 

And sometimes, we must weigh one person against another and it is our feeble hearts that chooses who."

"Who are we to judge?" murmured Hermione, fragments of something she had read so long ago, rising up to fit the silence needed to be filled.

"And in the end," he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear it, "all we can do is choose the one we love."

And Hermione knew what she had to do.


	4. Chapter Three

The Best of Intentions

By silvermisery

04 Chapter Three: Life Goes On (Surprisingly Enough)

_Disclaimer: I am a poor student who is, like, completely broke right now. Trust me, if I owned Harry Potter, I would NOT be sitting around on my broke butt writing crappy fanfiction._

**A/N: One sided H/Hr, one sided D/Hr. Not slash. I swear. Sorry it's taken me so long to update, but I've had like a major case of writer's block on this one. I felt rather dishonest g so I had to put in a note--while most of the other songs I use in this story I know, I have no idea who Stevie Wonder is and have never heard of this song before. I was on block and did random generic friends lyrics search on Google.  
**

_Keep smilin'_

_Keep shinin'_

_Knowin' you can always count on me for sure_

_That's what friends are for_

_In good times_

_And bad times_

_I'll be on your side forever more_

_That's what friends are for_

_--That's What Friends Are For, Stevie Wonder--_

"Harry?" he looked up from where he had been hunched over his Charms essay, frantically scribbling his half-formulated thesis and dashing off random and often irrelevant facts somewhat pertaining to his subject matter. It wasn't that Harry was a bad student, or so he liked to tell himself, but that he had a bad habit of leaving his essays till the last minute and then working frantically in an attempt to garner at least an Acceptable. And he had this addicting habit called Asking Hermione.

Nowadays, however, it had been relocated to Once In A While and had been usurped by Asking Draco, who was almost as good a student as Hermione and much more friendly nowadays, as well as the fact that he tended to use easier words than Hermione—except when he got excited about Potions.

Besides, whenever he was alone with Hermione or Ron, they would start giving him long, meaningful looks, and sooner or later, the topic of Draco would come up, and then tempers would start to rise, and it always ended with Hermione bursting into tears and scurrying off and Ron storming into the dorm and Harry left feeling angry and guilty and depressed.

Draco told him that they were prats and he should just forget about it, but then Harry felt worse than ever, so Draco told him if they were really his friends, it would be hard for them to accept competition. "After all," he said in true Draco fashion, "how are they going to compete with someone as smart, and cool, and powerful, and efficient, and handsome, and oh, with as sexy hair, as me?" And Harry had laughed, as he was meant to, and Draco had assured him that they would come around, and in the meantime maybe he should try not to talk about Draco.

So he had, and look what that led to—he was definitely going to fail Charms. He didn't look up.

"_Harry_?"

"Huh? Oh, hi, Hermione." He continued scribbling, hoping that she would take the hint and just go away, and feeling ashamed of himself for hoping.

"Harry, I have to talk to you." Her brown eyes are serious, and he winces.

"Mione, if it's about Draco—"

"It is, but not the way you think it is, I swear. Just hear me out."

"What?" he asked warily.

"Look, about Draco—I'm sorry." Her apology was so unexpected—_you're never wrong are you—_that he blinked, his jaw dropping. "I thought—never mind, you already know what I thought. But—he's different, isn't he? He's really changed."

"I—you—gosh, Mione, you're the best, you know that?" Harry was aware that he had a goofy grin on his face, but it didn't matter, not when he had absolutely the best friend in the world. "I know you'd come around."

She smiled back, looking like it hurt her to do so. "I can't promise I'll fall in love with him immediately, okay? Even if he's changed, he's still Malfoy. But—I'll try. I'll really try."

"That's all I want, Hermione. I love you."'

Her face turned pink, but she only said, "Well, then, goodbye," and turned to leave. As she did so, she caught sight of the hastily written essay he had been working on and groaned. "Oh Harry," she said, and picked it up, already beginning to take her quill out.

"Thanks, Mione," he said, edging toward the exit. "Look, I promise Draco I'd meet him today, and—"

She sighed that familiar sigh of exasperation he heard every time he skived off studying to go play Exploding Snap with Ron and said, "Yes, Harry, I'll fix it for you."

"Harry!" said Malfoy, his face lighting up with that familiar glow as he caught sight of him. "Finally, I've been waiting _forever_ for you!"

"Sorry, had to finish Charms essay," he explained while taking a great mouthful of the ice cream cone Malfoy had been industriously licking.

"Oy, that's my ice cream!" Draco said, looking offended. "And how many times have I told you—"

"Don't procrastinate, I know," Harry finished rolling his eyes. "You sound like Hermione." Draco made a highly expressive face, one that involved rolling his eyes to impossible heights and doing something with his mouth that made him look like he'd just sucked a lemon and sneered spectacularly at once.

"Don't do that, Draco," Harry chided. "She actually came around and told me today she'd try to be friends with you."

Draco held his hand to his forehead in a highly dramatic way. "Am I hearing things?" he asked in a high, girly voice. "Is this a vision? Can I believe mine ears?"

"Cut it, Malfoy," Harry said, laughing and shoving him to the floor while deftly swiping the ice cream.

"Hey!" Draco said from the floor, his expression affronted. "You've ruined my robes!"

"Drama queen," scoffed Harry even as he pulled Draco to his feet and checked him over for damage. "Your robes are fine."

"Yeah, yeah," Draco muttered dismissively. "Did the Weasel say anything?"

"No, he wasn't there, and don't call him that."

"I'll stop calling him Weasel when he stops calling me Ferret," Draco retorted as usual.

"You don't call Hermione the 'M' word anymore," Harry pointed out.

"That's far worse than calling your friend Weasel," Draco said reasonably. "Besides, she's not as bitchy as she used to be, while your friend is as big of a bastard as ever. Bigger, even."

"Draco," Harry warned.

"Oh all right, but you have to admit Granger is a hell of a lot nicer than the other member of your Golden Trio."

"Whatever," Harry said, wanting to get off this potentially dangerous subject. "C'mon, let's play chess. Ready for me to beat your arse, Malfoy?"

"Oh please, as if I haven't trounced your sorry backside every single time we played," said Draco, not without a grain of truth.

"There was that one time when I managed to get a stalemate," Harry whined.

"That was because Peony was climbing all over me, distracting me. Really, she's a cute little thing, takes after Pansy, but she doesn't know when to shut up."

"The pot is calling the kettle black," said Harry good-naturedly, but went to get the chessboard.

"Ha! I win again!" Draco pronounced a quarter of an hour later as he jumped a knight across Harry's last remaining rook.

"I swear you rig the game," Harry grumbled as he started cleaning up the chess pieces, who ranted and raved and waved their tiny arms at him, especially the queen, who was quite cross about the way she was always bashed on the head when she played for him. "_Silencio,_" he muttered at the queen. "So there." It was childish, but it made him feel better, and it made Draco snicker.

"Did Granger really say that?" he asked, randomly.

"Huh?" Harry looked up from where he had been making the knights joust each other.

"Did Granger really say she'd try to get along with me?"

"Yeah," Harry said, his face lighting up again at the thought.

Draco sighed dramatically; a full-blown, drawn-out theatrical sigh, one hand placed upon his heart. "All right, Harry," he said in an overly patient tone. "For you, I will do this noble thing, though it pains my very soul to do so. For you, I will deign to consort with—"

He got no further, for at that very moment, a pillow came hurtling through the air and hit him smack on the face. "You prat!" he yelled, delight written all over his face, and dove for a pillow.

When it was over, and they were both lounging about on piles of feathers, Harry said, "You will try to get along with Hermione, won't you?" rather anxiously.

"Didn't I say I would?" Draco asked lazily. "And don't I always keep my promises?"

Harry stared at Draco incredulously, until the latter finally gave in and said, "Well, most of the time, anyway?"

"Um—_no?_" Harry exclaimed.

"You," declaimed Draco grandly, "have hurt my feelings. I am wounded, Harry, I really am." The Gryffindor just looked at him until the other boy said peevishly, "I do too have feelings. At least, I could if I wanted to."

"Right," said Harry in a way which clearly expressed his views of Draco and feelings.

"I do, you know," said the Slytherin suddenly, dropping the banter. "All of us Slytherins do. We're just better at hiding it than the rest of you houses. Anyway," he said, his mood sliding lightning-quick into amiability, "I'll try to be nice to Granger. If she's nice to me. So long, Harry!" and he practically shoved the other boy out of the room, where he stood, bewildered and not a little startled by the Slytherin's mood changes.

"Granger?" Hermione looked up from _The Taming of the Shrew _to see Malfoy heading toward her. Cutting off the sigh that threatened to huff from her mouth, she said evenly, "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Did—did you really tell Harry that you'd try to get along with me?" put this way, with his hands in his pocket and a lock of hair falling over his eyes, he seemed no longer Malfoy, but a rather insecure, slightly uncomfortable teen who would rather be anywhere than here.

"Yes, I did," she said, wondering where this would lead.

"Then—I think it was a really decent thing to do, and—truce?" he held out his hand, clearly unsure whether or not she would shake it.

The kind of _truce _you have with Harry, she almost asked, but stopped herself in time, remember her task. "All right," she said, and took his hand. It was cold but not clammy, and his grip was firm and didn't 

shrink from her Mudblood hands, though she could tell it was with an effort he was restraining himself from wiping his hands on his robes.

"So," he started, then stopped. An awkward silence ensued, the kind you get after you have just made a huge _faux pas _and have no idea what to do.

"Oh, is that the _Taming of the Shrew_?" he exclaimed suddenly, quite obviously in an attempt to break that horrendous silence, but with genuine delight.

"Yes," she said, taken aback. "Ah—you know Shakespeare?"

"No, he's only one of the most famous writers ever," he drawled, though without the malicious overtones that had been present in his voice for the duration of the time she had known him.

"But—he's a Muggle," she protested.

"Well—" he said defensively. "He's damn good."

_Mission, Hermione. _She giggled in a very un-Hermione-ish way. "He is, isn't he? Harry and Ron don't read Shakespeare—I doubt they even know him," she complained, allowing herself to look appraisingly at him. She'd never looked appraisingly at another boy in her life, and she hoped she was doing it right. "Hey, you want to, um, talk about Shakespeare another time? Like, later?" she hoped her fumbling attempt at a meeting with him would be chalked up to furthering the truce they had just started.

A genuine smile lit up his face, and she found herself thinking that he was really rather attractive when he wasn't sneering or scowling. "Sure," he said. "Later."

"I talked to Granger yesterday," Draco announced with the air of one who has done something very arduous and noble and expects to be rewarded copiously for it.

"You did?" Harry's face lit up, and he grinned exultantly. "So how did it go?"

"Well," Draco considered. "It was actually…okay. She knows Shakespeare."

"She knows every author ever born," Harry said wryly.

"She wants to meet to discuss him."

"Really?" Harry sat bolt upright, electrified by this piece of unexpected good news. Yes, Hermione had said she'd try, but this—this was nothing short of miraculous.

"I didn't say the M-word once. And there wasn't a single insult."

"Wow," said Harry, shaking his head. "Just—wow."

"Yes," Draco said sourly. "Imagine—a Malfoy meeting with a Mu—Muggleborn to discuss Shakespeare. I expect the seas have turned to blood and it will be a month of blue moons."

"I'm sure the weather report will tell us," Harry answered amiably. "How about that game of Gobstones?"

When it was over, and Draco had won (and cheated outrageously as usual), Harry asked, "Well, will you?'

"Will I what?" asked Draco lazily, examining his cuticles.

"Will you meet Hermione?"

There was a long pause, and Harry waited on tenterhooks. Draco _was _a Malfoy, and—

"All right," said Draco finally, and the breath left Harry in a great whoosh. "For you, Harry, I will do this noble thing, though it pains me beyond all belief—"

"You prat!" howled Harry, still incredibly relieved, and reached for a pillow.

"We really have to stop doing this," Draco panted after another long, valiant battle between them, in which Draco had cheated again by using a wand. They were lying among the feathers and scraps of cloth, giggling and wheezing. "Sooner or later, we're going to exhaust the budge of Hogwarts just for pillows."

"It's the Room of Requirement," Harry reminded him. "Magic, and all that."

"Fine, then," said Draco. "Somewhere, a pitiful and pathetic farmer is wondering why all his geese are disappearing, and a rich but still worried cloth salesclerk is doing the same."

"Do you really care?" Harry asked, yawning.

"Nah," said Draco, and reached for the cup of hot chocolate that had appeared.

"WHY NOT?"

"BECAUSE HE'S MALFOY!"

Harry and Ron broke off, both breathing heavily and glaring at each other. Ron's face had gone an interesting shade of purple, while Harry's face was flushed angrily. Blue and green met in an angry stare, each trying his hardest to make the other back down.

"Hermione agreed!"

"Hermione's fucking mental!"

"No, you are!"

"Is that the best you can do?"

"You—you—" Harry struggled for a way to vent his anger. "URGH!" Whirling around, he was at the door and on the verge of leaving—again—the way he had done every other single time he had confronted Ron about this. The door would slam, and Harry would be gone, and Ron would be left to fume and pace angrily until he was calm enough to leave without looking like a candidate for St. Mungo's Ward.

Except the door didn't slam, and Harry didn't leave. Instead, he was staring in disgust at the door, shaking the doorknob and kicking the door. "Of all the stupid things—where's my wand?" he muttered, patting his pockets.

"Lost it?" laughed Ron nastily.

"It's—where's your wand?" Harry asked.

"As if I'd lend it to you," Ron muttered, but habit had him searching for the wand which he always kept on him and was…nowhere to be found.

"You don't have it?" Harry asked, but at that moment, from outside, came a familiar and hated voice.

"I took them both," called Malfoy from outside. "It's really pathetically easy to steal from you Gryffindorks, you know."

Ron saw red and tried to lunge for the door. Harry beat him to it. "I told you not to call us that!" he yelled. "And give us back our wands immediately! And unlock the door!"

"No," called back Draco Sodding Malfoy. "Not until you two settle up. I'm getting _sick _of you moping about him, and while it's interesting to see the shade Weasley's face goes, I'm getting tired of having to block his clumsy hexes. Make up. Now. I'm not letting you out until you do, and Potions is in an hour," he added.

"_Shite,_" Ron breathed, thinking about how angry Snape would be if they came in late—or, worse—didn't come in at all, and somehow Ron didn't think Snape would accept the excuse of being locked in by his star student.

"Exactly," Malfoy chuckled. "So long, then. The door is charmed to open when you two make up." The sound of his retreating footsteps was clearly audible in the sudden, dramatic silence that ensued.

"So." Harry was looking at anywhere but Ron.

"So." Ron agreed.

"I guess we could—shake hands?" Harry asked tentatively. "He did say it was a charm, you know. Charms aren't—they aren't sentient or anything."

"Sentient?" mocked Ron. "Ooh, is ickle Harry growing up now and learning big words?"

"Shove off!" snapped Harry, cheeks red. "Why do you always have to be such a prat? And for your information, Draco taught it to me."

"What is with you and Malfoy?" yelled Ron. "What is it he's got that I don't? I've been your best friend for six years, and suddenly the Slytherin wannabe Death Eater shows up, and I'm nothing? Just—a blip?"

"Oh God, Ron," Harry's voice sounded suspiciously thick. "That's—I never meant—you're not a blip," he ended finally, and Ron thought he saw what might have been a shimmer in his eyes, except Harry never cried, and certainly not over someone as unimportant as Ronald Weasley.

"Really? And that's why you go crying to Malfoy every day about how _big bad Ronald Weasley _is being _mean _to you?" he sneered, knowing it made him look ugly but not caring.

"I don't—you were the one making me choose!" Harry cried, and Ron froze.

"What did you say?" his tongue wasn't cooperating. Time was slowing down, and it was an effort getting his limbs to respond.

"Malfoy never wanted me to give up you, it was just you, harping on and on about how I could be friends with both Malfoy and you. And I didn't mean to ignore you, honestly, but everytime we were together for more than a few minutes, you'd start going on about Draco again and again and again, and I was just so _tired _of it, and Draco never mentioned it."

Ron stood, staring at him. He hadn't—had he? Memories were starting to flood through his bleary brain again, time speeding up—_"How could you spend time with that git—what about your friends—he's fucking with your mind—it's me or him, Harry."_

"I never wanted to choose." Harry's voice was defeated, the way he'd sounded after Sirius died, and Ron felt a pang go through him at the realization that this time, he was the one causing it. What kind of friend was he, anyway? Ignoring him in fourth year—and now this. He sighed. Some best mate he was.

"Look, Harry," he said quietly. "I don't want to make you choose either."

Harry's face shot up, and his look of hope was so obvious it was almost pathetic. "You said—in the Gryffindor common room—about how it was him or you—"

"That was me being an arse," Ron said, and swallowed.

"You mean you—"

"I—yeah," Ron said, and swallowed again, his throat clogging up for some ridiculous and absurd reason.

"Yeah, yeah, cue the manly Quidditch hug of the two incredibly straight guys," cut in a drawling, familiar voice.

"Malfoy!" Ron whirled around to see the blond peacock leaning against the doorframe of the open door.

"But—you said—the charm," Harry protested.

"I lied," Malfoy said unapologetically. "I do that a lot. Slytherin, remember?" he gave Harry a blinding grin. "Besides, do you really think I'd let you go late to Snape's class?"

At that reminder, Ron jumped and glanced at his watch. Oh shit.

"You've got," Malfoy glanced at his poncy fancy watch—"exactly three minutes and twenty three seconds to get there," and he took off, expensive robes flapping behind him.

"Wait up, you git!" Harry yelled, and launched after him, grinning, then stopped, turned, and looked at Ron. "Coming?" he asked, and that one simple word lit up Ron's face, and he grinned and said,

"Sure!"

But even as he ran, feet pounding and scared to death that they would be tardy, the realization that Malfoy had been willing to risk being late to Snape's class for Harry's happiness sunk in, and he groaned inwardly. _Well, I might have to accept him being Harry's friend, but there's no way in hell I'm ever going to _like _the bastard._


	5. Chapter Four

The Best of Intentions

By silvermisery

05 Chapter Four: All That I Do, I Do For Love Of You

_Disclaimer: This is really lame. So I'm not even going to bother. If you want the full scathing rant, look at the ones before this one. I'm too tired to do it today. _

**A/N: One sided H/Hr, one sided D/Hr. Not slash. I swear. The chapter title…hmm, who do you think I'm talking about, Pansy, Hermione, Ginny??**

_You're such an inspiration for the ways that I will never ever choose to be_

_Oh so many ways for me to show you how your Savior has abandoned you_

_Your lord your Christ took what you had and_

_Still you pray never stray never_

_Never taste of the fruit_

_Never start to question why…_

_Praise the one who left you broken down and paralyzed_

_He did it all for you…_

—_Judith, A Perfect Circle—_

After Ron and Hermione's uneasy truce with Draco, things settled down into a fragile sort of peace. Ron and Draco, after a bit of prodding here and there and a few explosive fights, compromised for sort of pretending that the other didn't exist, much like the peace a cat will have with a dog who happens to live in the same house. Hermione, mindful of her mission, tried to get closer to the anemic blond and found that it wasn't all that difficult. Something had happened over the summer—something that had changed him, or had done a very good job of creating an actor out of him.

He was aloofly polite and his mask had changed from spiteful sneers to courteous half-smiles and she tried every way she knew to get closer to him and he evaded them all with exquisite manners until she thought she would scream with frustration. And all the time the horrible guilt kept eating away at her until she cried in her sleep and Parvati whispered to Lavendar that she thought the strain of all those perfect grades was finally taking its toll.

Hermione smiled bitterly when Ginny told her that and wished it was true.

But somehow she continued—_just remember, it's only Malfoy, after all, just Malfoy—_and continued and continued and continued until finally one day Malfoy's mask slipped for a second and he gave a brilliant smile. It flashed out at her like a mirror reflecting sunlight, and for minute he looked almost—

handsome—and she realized what Harry might see in him and why he would want to be the Slytherin's friend. _Or something more? _An insidious voice crept up in her mind, but she quickly squashed it. Harry was straight. _Straight, _she told herself firmly, and the little worries crept away.

And so she strived on, and wondered why Dumbledore didn't contact her—not a single message!—and pored over Malfoy's file at night, and woke up with red eyes and puffy cheeks and stared in the mirror and hated the reflection that looked back.

"Harry fancies Morag, you know," Malfoy said in his lazy way one day after another discussion of Shakespeare.

"Morag MacDougal?" Hermione asked, more sharply than she had intended. "But isn't she a Slytherin?"

"Well, yes," said Malfoy, "is there something wrong with that?" his eyes shuttered low.

"No," Hermione said, belatedly realizing her error, "but it's just like Harry to pick the girl from the one house who isn't likely to like him back because of his hero status."

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," Malfoy drawled in his humorous, slightly malicious way. "Gina Nott, Teddy's older brother, might," and Hermione choked, because Gina Nott was huge and had a flat, squashed-up nose and was thick-boned and flat-chested and built more like Crabbe or Goyle than a girl.

"Seriously?" she asked when she had finished coughing up hot chocolate.

Malfoy smirked. "I happen to know she bought pictures of Harry asleep from Colin Creevey for thirty Galleons and sleeps with them under her pillow."

"Oh, _ew_," Hermione said disgustedly. "I so did not need to hear that!"

"And she—"

"Enough!" Hermione cried, dropping the tome of _As You Like It _with a thud. She leaned forward to get it and realized Malfoy's eyes were glued to a certain part of her body a short distance below her face. Her first reaction was to flush hotly and pull back, but knowledge of her mission stopped her, and she deliberately hunched forward a little more. Malfoy's breathing hitched and stopped for a moment before he regained control of himself and averted his eyes, but he had given himself away.

He was attracted to her, if only in a normal teenage boy hormone sort of way. Apparently her Mudblood was not sufficiently repulsive to stop him from ogling her breasts. Hermione Granger BT, Before Task, would have been shocked, but Hermione Granger AT, After Task, only thought of it as a stepping stone to her goal. She should have stayed and worked on it, but disgust—at herself, at Malfoy, at the world—overcame her and she found herself quickly excusing herself and heading toward the nearest girl's rooms and puking her guts out, miserably, in the toilet while Moaning Myrtle jeered.

Pansy sighed as she stared into the dancing flames of the fire in the Slytherin common room as they cavorted in the stone fireplace she was sitting in front of. "Tired, Pansy?" asked Teddy Nott, leaning over from a game of Wizarding Chess.

"I'm fine," she answered warily. Life among the Slytherins was a strange mixture of suspicion, bordering even on paranoia, and unconditional trust. She belonged to her Housemates with all her fierce heart, but she would scheme against them and betray them in a minute. But never to their deaths, and never to a member of another House.

Unlike Draco.

It was the unspoken rule. Slytherins first. Everyone else can go to hell. But now, Draco was seeing a Gryffindor. Oh, not _that _way, but—he was corresponding with them! Talking to Potter for hours and not beating his speccy little face in!

It was—_unfair_—not Draco.

Morag MacDougal, with her laughing little elvish face and strands of pale blond hair (_almost like Draco's but not quite as otherworldly, no one had hair like Draco's) _and blue blue eyes leaned forward, and though she was flat compared to Pansy and really too skinny, Teddy shifted closer toward her unconsciously, entranced by her beauty.

Sally Anne Perkes with her gorgeous chestnut hair and perfect goddess-like features. Even Millicent was handsome in her own chiseled, muscular way, if you liked girls who could take you out with one blow.

Pansy was fat and she had a pug nose and her hair was long and black and it should have made her look pretty but it only made her look sullen. She had huge curves but it didn't matter because she had to wear loose clothes to cover up her fatness and so it didn't show very much. Draco told her she wasn't fat, everyone was built differently, but she had only to look at Morag's waifish thin figure, or Sally Anne's movie-star lines, or even Draco himself, all lean lines and sharp points to know he was lying to make her feel better.

And Draco would never like her _that way. _Not when there were so many more beautiful girls around. If he hadn't fallen for that Mudblood Granger already. Who was bossy and had a screeching, nagging voice and way too much hair for any one person, but had a pretty enough face and goddamn thin figure and wasn't ugly like Pansy.

She wanted to throw something.

Instead, she reined herself in like she could—like she did every night—and smiled and turned to Eloise Midgen and embarked in a discussion over who was the better catch, Teddy Nott or Blaise Zabini. She would cry at night, when she was alone and a Silencing Spell was put up around her. She could wait. She had always done that.

"You fancy Morag MacDougal?" Hermione asked Harry the next night as they sat together in the Gryffindor common room working on his Transfiguration homework.

Harry flushed and hissed, "Shh!" and looked around quickly to see if there was anyone watching. Lavender and Parvati were in the girls' dorms, Seamus and Dean were discussing football again for the umpteenth time, and Ron was sleeping. Everyone else was listening to Ginny's animated discussion with Colin Creevey about photographic rights and how he should give back the pictures he had taken of her while sunbathing in a very skimpy bikini.

"Keep it down," he muttered and sank down a little lower on his seat on the couch.

Hermione giggled. "Why her?" she asked.

"She's cute," he said defensively.

"And has the soul of a jackal," she couldn't resist sniping. But Harry looked so downcast that she couldn't resist saying, "Harry, you know I'll support you no matter whom you date, right?"

He brightened before saying cheekily, "Except Voldemort, I hope," and she laughed and pounced on him, and they got engaged in a tickling match until he raised his hands in mock-surrender and she _ached _because he was looking so happy and it would never be her.

And she stifled the flash of resentment and worry that he had told Malfoy before her, that it was Morag—who was, after all, a bitch—and not her, and that she was losing him to every person she saw.

"You told Hermione that I fancy Morag," Harry accused Draco the next time he saw him, which was in the Slytherin's dorms. Technically, he shared them with the other Slytherin Prefect, Pansy Parkinson, but the beds were on opposite sides of the room and they had separate bathrooms, so it was almost like a private room. Not that Harry thought it was fair that the Prefects got separate rooms at all, but that was just the Slytherin way.

"Why not?" drawled the blond, who was currently engaged in admiring his reflection in the floor-length mirror hung on his side of the room. Along with the vanity mirror, and the small hand mirror, and a special mirror just for his feet tilted on the floor. Draco had the most mirrors Harry had ever seen at one time, and he suspected that they cost more than all of the mirrors he had seen put together.

"Because," Harry said helplessly, then stopped. What could he say? Hermione was his best friend, besides Ron. _And Draco, _he realized, and felt a pang of guilt that he felt comfortable telling Draco things that he didn't to Ron and Hermione.

"Didn't you want me to?" Draco stopped fidgeting with his hair—which looked just the same to Harry as it had done fifteen minutes ago—and turned around, staring at him. "I thought you were best mates and all. Bound together for life and all that shite. Besides, she's not like Patil or Brown or even Perkes, she can keep her mouth shut. Knows how to keep a secret. You'd think she was almost a Slytherin."

Harry gaped. "Did you just—_compliment _Hermione?"

A slow flush crept up Draco's cheeks, and he whirled back around to the mirror, which didn't do any good, as the mirror faced Harry and he still got a good view of the blush currently staining Draco's entire albino face. "She's not bad—for a Gryffindor," muttered the pureblood.

"But she's a Muggleborn," Harry protested.

"And you're a halfblood," Draco retorted, "and so is the Dark Lord, and so are quite a few of the people in Slytherin, though of course we all cover it up."

Harry stared even more. "Isn't that a bit—hypocritical?"

"You know what that word means?" Draco snapped. "Besides, the reason we dislike Muggleborns is because they're ruining our culture. Muggles things are leaking in and Wizard things are leaking out and it's _dangerous _to have so many Muggles learn about us. Also, they hold us back."

"Hermione beats you in almost every subject," Harry pointed out. Draco scowled; apparently this was a sore subject for him.

"But all of our first year was almost all repetitions of what we purebloods had already learned at home. Except for Longbottom, but then his grandmother is singularly eccentric. Imagine if Granger had grown up in a pureblood home. Think of how far ahead she'd be by now. A lot of our lessons we have to learn at home, with additional details added."

_Additional details meaning Dark Arts, _Harry thought, but didn't say it out loud.

"Anyway, halfbloods in Slytherin are practically pureblood in that they have an adopted old family, and they retain our culture and mannerisms. Yes, Muggles can invent good things, but our culture needs to be preserved. Did you know that only five years ago, the mother of a Muggleborn flipped when she realized her precious child was magic? She drowned, not only the child, but all her other children as well. The case was famous in the Muggle world, but here of course the Muggle-lover Dumbledore hushed it all up."

Harry hadn't known. "But not all Muggles are like that," he said feebly, thinking of the Dursleys.

"No, but we can't trust them!" Draco whirled around again. His eyes were glittering silver and a small hectic flush was in his cheekbones, and his hands were swirling in extravagant gestures as he made his point. Harry had never seen him this worked up, and he thought Draco looked nicer—more Gryffindor—like this, alive and animated.

"I see your point," Harry said finally. "But what about witches like Hermione? They have incredible potential. Would you want to miss out on them because of your culture?"

"No," Draco said, "I would take them from their family and place them with old pureblooded families who are barren."

Harry started. "That's awful!" he exclaimed.

"Think, Harry," said Draco patiently. "Does your friend Hermione still live with her parents or at Hogwarts?"

"That's different! Hogwarts is only nine months every year!"

"And when she grows up, will she stay in touch? Do her parents still have a full influence in most of her life? Do they even figure prominently?"

Harry blinked. "_I can't tell them about it, of course, Harry, they'd worry, so I just said a sort of friendly contest and left it at that,_" Hermione had said of the TriWizard Tournament. Voldemort was out of the question, of course. What would she say? _Oh hi, Mom, Dad, nice dinner, and by the way, my best friend, you know Harry, he's actually world-famous and he's on the hit list of the most powerful Dark wizard ever, and he's been having narrow life-and-death escapes since first year, good night!_

"You see, Harry?" Draco's voice was softer. "They lose them anyway. Better that they lose them when they're small and haven't had enough time to love them as much than to lose them after eleven long years of taking care of them."

"That's your view," Harry pointed out.

"Yes," Draco said unrepentantly. "I'm not a nice person. I'll do whatever it takes to keep my way of life intact. But I don't like killing, and I really think this is better for everybody all around."

Harry sighed and shook his head. "Anyway," he said, "Hermione doesn't like Morag."

"Oh?" Draco asked, and flopped on the bed next to Harry. "Do tell. Cat fight?"

She watched and brooded as Morag took the spotlight again in the common room, flitting about and batting her eyelashes and shaking her head of fine elvish hair and wished—just once—she could be the pretty popular girl, not the ice queen, not the Supreme Slytherin Bitch who rules because of her friendship with Draco and her snarky quick tongue.

Morag was so pretty and appealing that even other Houses would marginally accept her more than any other Slytherin, certainly more than that "wretched cow Pansy Parkinson," as the bossy Mudblood Granger had called her.

Her only memory of what it feels like to feel pretty was one day when she was fourteen in Hogsmeade at the robe shop for purebloods only (it doesn't say that on the sign of course, but everyone knows) and she tried on the red dress.

It was tight and slippery and it made her feel stuffed and fat, riding up on her legs to show her massive thighs. It draped around her curves in a way that made her feel uncomfortable, showing them off, highlighting and embellishing her chest and hips that made her feel like a slut, and she would have taken 

it off except that Teddy Nott woke up and looked at her for the first time, and Draco—_Draco—_smiled at her and told her she looked fabulous and he was lucky to be her boyfriend, back when they were still going out.

It was then that she worked out that she had a little bit of power in that dress, and others like it, short and revealing and slutty, if she curled her mouth just right with blinding red lipstick and dipped her head slightly so she looked up at someone through her eyelashes. Nothing like Morag, but that day she felt beautiful.

Because of Draco. And now he was gone.

And Pansy sat, and wondered, and plotted. Because that was what Slytherins do best, and she was nothing if not a Slytherin. It was the only thing she knew how to be.

If Draco wanted a cat fight, he certainly got one the next day when Granger and the She-Weasel got into an enormous fight at the Great Hall during lunchtime. Which was surprising, because as far as Draco knew, Granger and the Weaselette got along fairly well. They talked about whatever it was girls talked about in the mysterious little chats that always seemed to involve a lot of giggling and whispering and sideways glances and tossing of hair and did homework together and all. But today there was a black cloud simmering between the two Gryffindors, until it finally burst.

Oddly enough, it started with Granger asking the Weaselette to pass the butter.

"Would you be so kind as to pass the butter?" she asked Ginny crisply.

"Certainly," the redhead said stiffly and began to pass the dish. Since Harry was sitting in between the two witches, she leaned over him and her breasts—which were nothing special but impressive considering her otherwise athletic, lean build—brushed Harry's face. He blushed a bright red and Draco rolled his eyes. Honestly, the boy was such a prude—how he would get along with Morag Draco had no idea. But Granger, who was normally calm and sensible and ignored such hormone-driven interactions, snapped and called the She-Weasel a "slag who had no sense of decency or morals."

Not, Draco reflected, that the description wasn't true, but, as might be expected, the Weasleys' youngest hope was deep in denial, and her head whipped up, eyes blazing, and the dish dropped from her hand and cracked into blue porcelain fragments on the table, splattering Harry, Weasley, and Longbottom with oozing butter.

"Oy!" yelled the Weasel, but the two fuming witches paid no attention to him or the hapless Longbottom, who had tried to clean himself up and ended knocking over his pumpkin juice and making a bigger mess.

Things quickly escalated until the fiery redhead yelled that Hermione was a "bossy, nagging bitch who was really just a whore at heart," and Hermione, furious and with splotches of red splashed across her 

high cheekbones, retorted that Ginny was "nothing but a stupid, ditzy slut who was only interested in two things: Quidditch and cock, and wasn't the symbolism of all those broomsticks she rode apparent to anybody but herself?"

The whole Great Hall was watching in awe at the live entertainment before them. This was better than soaps! Harry had made a few abortive attempts to stop them, but he quickly cowered back at even a look from either of the two raging women.

Back and forth the insults flew, faster and meaner until even Draco was reluctantly impressed. Damn but Granger had more spirit than he had expected, and more guts to say those things out loud too. And the Weaselette, well, what she lacked in the vocabulary department, she made up for in pure bitchiness.

"Looks like they might even be better than you," he murmured quietly to Pansy, who was enjoying every minute of watching the two Gryffindors humiliate each other. She huffed, but had to agree that they were rather good at snarkiness.

Finally, the professors managed to separate the two. McGruesome, as Draco liked to call her, had her lips pinched and set in a thin white line. Professor Snape, whom Draco honestly liked except for the lack of personal hygiene and permanent PMS, was also stalking up in great billowing strides, obviously looking forward to taking points.

McFitToBeTied was furiously exclaiming, "Fifty points from Gryffindor! Detention for both of you for a week! In all my life—I have never—_never!_—seen such behavior! From my own house! I am ashamed, Miss Granger and Weasley, I am ashamed!"

Thus thwarted from his Mission of Death, Snape could only glower promisingly and smirk at the two witches' discomfort. They had subsided, still simmering and casting Avada Kedavra looks through their respectively red and bushy hair. Harry and Weasley looked shocked at the actions of their best friend and little (adoptive in one case) sister, especially Weasley, who had a post-war-trauma sort of daze on his face.

Longbottom had finally managed to clean up his mess, but Draco strongly suspected that he had wet his robes. Thomas and Finnegan were laughing together, apparently under the delusion that this was all great fun, until Weasley snapped out of his muttering long enough to threaten them with a fist in the face if they didn't sober up quickly. Then he went back to rocking back and forth and generally acting like Draco's aunt Bellatrix on her worse days.

Immediately after their first class, when they had a break period, Draco went to find Harry. He found the Gryffindor perched on one of the stone ledge seats of the huge windows that overlooked the Hogwarts ground, brooding. As usual. Draco sometimes thought that while the angsty, melancholy, handsome dark hero was all very well, Harry took it a shade too far. Besides, how could anyone look melancholy while furiously shoving up glasses with one hand and trying desperately to keep his hair from falling in his eyes with the other?

"What was that all about this morning?" Draco asked quietly, coming and plopping down next to Harry with self-conscious grace.

"I have absolutely no idea," Harry muttered, still staring out the window.

"Are you sure?" Draco pressed. He didn't want to go too far, but he was naturally curious—_for God's sake, Draco, because it does, and stop pestering me about why!_—and the fight had been incredibly out of character for both the two almost-women.

"No!" Harry burst out, swinging around to stare at him wild-eyed. "They're supposed be my friends—and they seemed so normal—and I had no clue!"

"All right," Draco said peaceably. "So you didn't know. Do you think they're both in love with the same bloke?"

Harry frowned. "That's not like Hermione. She's very even and above all our 'hormone-driven interactions'," he said, making air quotes and sounding the last three words in a very Hermione-ish voice.

Draco choked back a snicker. "Well, what happened today wasn't very Hermione-ish either," he pointed out reasonably. "So maybe it is boy troubles."

"Could be," Harry muttered. "Why can't it be simple like us guys?"

"Yeah," Draco pointed out. "So simple. If two guys like the same girl, they knock each other out, wake up with a splitting headache and a detention in Pomfrey's ward, and then both get dumped for some movie-star-gorgeous wanker."

"True," Harry gave a half-hearted sort of chuckle, then looked up and teased, "You sound like you're talking from experience there."

"Wha—Me!" Draco looked outraged as he shouted, "I would _never _get in a fight over some stupid girl. Not to mention the fact that—me, dumped! Don't be absurd," he ended huffily. "No one dumps Malfoys."

He stalked off in a dramatic swirl of robes that reminded Harry of one Potions Professor, leaving the Gryffindor holding his sides from laughter. It echoed in the halls, rebounding again and again, until finally it died down until only the whispers remained.


End file.
